Fragments
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "Sanan advances; Sen resists, at first. No food, no water, just blood. More and more, time and time again. No thoughts but hunger and thirst, no space for the desire to be free. Just the taste of salt and copper on silent tongue." A character study, of sorts, regarding Sen as corrupted by Sanan; rejecting his influence is more easily said than done. I do not own Hakuōki.


The madness starts with a kiss.

Sanan lunges forward, smothering her, lips on lips before Sen can run. Fingers like steel around her wrist, around her neck, choking her. She digs her fingernails into his arm, scratching, clawing. Biting brings a chuckle and a rush of venom, forced—down—her throat—

Breaks away, breathes again, but only because Sanan lets her. Coughs, retches. Red spatters. Not enough. Dizziness like lightning. Sen collapses, the sound of laughter muffled in her ears.

Lifts her head, panting. Can't swallow, won't swallow. Throat constricts, tightens. Looks up. Hazy shapes—allies or enemies? More talk, meaningless in her suffering. Tries to call out. No words, only a whimper of pain. Convulses, writhes, sweat soaking her through.

A low growl, then a roar like thunder, clearer even than her thoughts. _Enough_. Kazama Chikage. Hair from gold to white, eyes from red to gold. Blade bared, flashing in moonlight. Kazama's explosion of motion, blurred like heat from wildfire. A glimpse of Chizuru, caught up in another sticky situation.

Sanan, cold and calm, commanding—a pull in her blood. An instinct to obey. A vehement rejection. A vicious conflict, tearing her apart from the inside. _I will never yield to the likes of you_. Yet he is victorious. Sen rises to her feet, glaring, clutching at her chest. Sword slides out of its scabbard, snakelike, treacherous.

Holding herself together through the strength of her rage alone. Gloating, triumph, but she can't hear Sanan over her pounding pulse. A gesture, careless, airy. Soldiers from the shadows, without number. Something about his demon princess, his fury bride. Herself, realizes Sen, and sways.

A wall of furies, a cry from Toudou. An assurance from Sanan that there will be no further fighting. Countless pairs of flat, unfocused eyes—heartless, lifeless. Sword wavers at another snarl from Kazama, a laugh from Sanan. Sen is swept along, too frail to struggle, her sword pried from her fingers. Darkness, pulsing darker with her heartbeat.

* * *

…Wakefulness, in a way. Time means nothing. Sanan advances; Sen resists, at first. No food, no water, just blood. More and more, time and time again. No thoughts but hunger and thirst, no space for the desire to be free. Just the taste of salt and copper on silent tongue.

 _Death as a demon or survival as a fury_ , Sanan tells her, once—slapping Sen to the floor when she says death, his caresses more aggressive now. No. No. No. The negative dies in her mouth and she relaxes, tenses, relaxes, accepts the toxin. Her sole blessing in the hell her life has become is that Sanan does not seem interested in her body. Overpowering her soul is enough.

Control slips from her grasp like the tides. Ebb and flow, memories, lost and found amid a storm of torment. Kimigiku. Chizuru. Toudou. Amagiri. Kazama. Sen recites their names in an endless stream until animal thirst chokes her off again. Prays, in vain, that she will remember what it was like to be a demon… what it was like to be neither predator nor prey… what it was… like…

Cravings, a feverish desire for it to be over. Has it been days? Weeks? Months? Too long to tell. Lucid moments are fewer and farther between. During one, Sen wishes she were human, that she could die more easily. During another, she can only cry—faithless in her instability, her insanity. Seeking unconsciousness, sleep, yet fighting against the urge to surrender, clinging to the remnants of her former self.

Thrashing, struggling, wailing for blood till Sanan comes back to feed her. Hating him, hating herself, hating. A beast dressed in silk, a princess among monsters. Thriving on poison, drinking the essence of an abomination, burning her throat, her heart, all the way down. Wanting relief, release, respite.

Footsteps approach; Sanan withdraws, Sen's supper interrupted. Again. Guards? Rescuers? All hope of escape has long since died. Thoughts veiled even from herself. Smoke, fog, observations without judgment. A cry, achingly familiar, distorted— _my lady_!

Kimigiku. Sen stirs, pushes herself upright, lips still parted. Tries to call out, but Sanan takes the words out of her mouth, and bows in misguided courtesy. Another voice, stronger. _A true demon would never submit to a fake like you_ , spits Kazama, contemptuous in his superiority.

Needless explanation, patronizing condescension, an assertion of empty supremacy. An argument, the promise of bloodshed. An offer of conscious savagery spurned: _you might as well ask a tiger if it would prefer to be a housecat_. A feeble yowl welling up in the back of her throat as the strength leaves her limbs. Sen, the housecat, mewling to be fed—too weak of will to beg the tiger's help.

More incomprehensible words, and a shout from Chizuru. _Heisuke isn't like you_! Sen grimaces, an attempt at a smile. Love, the like of which she will never know. The memory of a promise, shattering all girlish thoughts of romance. An abandoned bargain made not for love, never for love; only for the good of her people. A lost birthright, a ruined future, everything gone in a single terrible instant—

Kazama, sword drawn, kneeling beside her. _One way or another, I will end your suffering_ , he says, voice low and urgent. A cut between his forefinger and his thumb, tantalizing red dripping down his palm on both sides. _Accept my mercy and drink. If you don't regain your pride as a demon once my blood flows into your body, I'll put you out of your misery_.

Gripping Kazama's wrist even as he speaks, overcome by forbidden temptation, Sen pulls him forward. Lips on skin, helplessly ravenous, sucking out generous drops of life. Gratitude of a sort for his brand of kindness, dulled by focus on sating her monstrous appetite.

Yet the cut closes too soon, his pure demonic blood working as much against her as for. Panting, head throbbing, Sen goes limp as she catches her breath, encircled in Kazama's strong and strangely gentle arms. Kimigiku smiles her relief, mouth moving, but Sen hears nothing. Not enough, not enough. More blood… more…

A chuckle from Sanan, and then—agony. A panicked shriek from Chizuru, a warning given too late. Sen's sword moves, stabbing back into his stomach as she turns, all thoughts of resistance made frail by unnatural hunger.

 _What are you_ —

Kazama's voice is astonished, too stunned to be wary. Words cut off by blood, hot and sticky. Sword buried deep in his stomach, then drawn again from its new sheath, silver slick with crimson. Sen examines the blade, licks it carefully: demon blood, a gift more precious than any other.

A groan of anger and frustration from behind interrupts the smile meant for Sanan, her savior. Turning back to her prey, kneeling next to him, leaning down to drink from him, intoxicated already. But Chizuru cries a name—her name—and Kimigiku her title: _princess_ , not of furies but of demons.

Shaken as she remembers them, Sen tries to respond, head pounding with the effort of thinking her own thoughts again. Voice less than a whisper, repeating their names, drowned out by the sound of Toudou and Sanan's ongoing clash. Breathing ragged, she licks her palm, her sword, in search of sanity.

Demon blood or friends' voices, Sen's head clears briefly, and she twitches. _No!_ she screeches, throws her arms up as if to shield her eyes. _Stay away from me! I might kill you! Both of you!_ The maddening scent of Kazama's blood, the influence Sanan has even now—even as she tries to talk, she can feel herself slipping again.

Yet Chizuru still approaches. Kimigiku holds out an arm to stop her, voice frantic. A death threat, countered with soft admonition. Sen sees only the promise of more demon blood, drawing ever nearer.

Trembling, opening her mouth. Cut off by Sanan's will, redoubled in her very soul. She screams in agony, brandishes her sword. Leaps forward—stabs at Chizuru, heart clenching—cannot either stay her hand or look away—not Chizuru, not Chizuru—

Not Chizuru. Kimigiku, diving in front of her. A cry wrenches itself from Sen's lungs and Chizuru's at once. Kimigiku coughs blood, smiles, speaks. _My lady is well-loved by her people, but she is a princess of a clan that is already very small_ , she says, piercing Sen's heart with a few feeble words. _She has many adoring subjects, but… no true friends_.

Falling along with her tears, Kimigiku collapses. Sen catches her, steadies her, slides her sword out so that the wound can heal. Not a mortal wound, but serious all the same. _I'm sorry_ , she murmurs, earnest and remorseful. Grief, real and genuine. A recognition, hazy, of her own identity.

Sanan's incredulity breaks into her thoughts, his grip on her psyche loosened. Red on her hands no longer elicits revelry, but revulsion. So much blood spilled, the desire to spill more fading, replaced by faint nausea. _Simple words should not be enough to break my conditioning!_

Kazama speaks, struggles to push himself back to lean against the wall. _How it happened is irrelevant_ , he says, quiet and triumphant. _What matters is that your vaunted fury blood failed. Again_. Sen moves to help him sit upright, leaving Kimigiku in Chizuru's care.

Sanan turns his sword on them all. A promise of destruction, a vow to slaughter everyone but Sen herself—and more desperately, an oath that should he fail, Chizuru will take her place. No reason nor rational thought remains in his wild eyes. He is lost beyond finding; no demon blood can save him.

A menacing step forward, and Toudou appears before him, drives him back again. _Let's leave living people out of this, huh, Sanan_? he says, jaunty as ever. _You and I, though, we died a long time ago. How about we settle it, dead man to dead man_. A confession of Toudou's love for Chizuru, shouted like a battle cry—a request to trust him—an assertion that he will kill Sanan—and their battle begins in earnest.

Sen leans next to Kazama, lightheaded, observing her surroundings through glazed eyes. A deadly dance, strikes barely missed, swords singing against one another. Chizuru, enthralled; Kimigiku, unconscious, still recovering. And then there is Sanan's blade, buried in Toudou's chest.

The victor turns to Chizuru, in search of terror. She does not respond, only stares at him and at Toudou. They exchange words, trust for mistrust, hope for cynicism. _If only my words were as effective a means of control as my blood_ , sighs Sanan, _you could see the truth_.

His blood… his blood. Sen moistens her lips at the thought, thirsty and sick. Chizuru closes her eyes, in prayer or in concentration, and murmurs something too softly for Sen to hear. _Time to die, Yukimura_ , snarls Sanan, pulling at his sword in preparation to strike her down—but his blade is trapped in flesh and bone, mended already.

A scream, filled with more emotions than Sen could count: Toudou's. Sparks from friction, a blade along the ground. Sanan's left arm, motionless, his powers forsaking him. A whisper of flesh against steel. Blood, fresh from the heart. Cowering, crouching, curling into a pathetic ball, Sen shivers in fear of the creature she was mere moments ago, who might have feasted her eyes upon such a sight.

Chizuru hardly waits until Sanan falls before she gets to her feet and rushes forward to embrace Toudou. A growl, low and bestial, from Sanan—becoming a guttural whisper in answer to some question—the end, claiming him at last. Kazama's hand on Sen's shoulder, wet with his own blood. Shuddering, gasping in self-reproach…

And then… clarity. Senses returning suddenly as Sanan's soul, such as it was, departs. The suffocating stench of death; the remembrance of despair. Shame and sorrow, relief and anguish. Sourceless, directionless, heedless of propriety, her oncoming tears cannot be stopped.

Burying her face in Kazama's velvet jacket, Sen cries for all she endured and all that could have been. Breathless, voiceless, sobbing broken apologies. His hand slips to her back, tentative, almost kind. She sits up, faces him more fully, bows her head, scoots away. They're close, much closer than she thought. Immodestly so.

Fingers tap her chin up, encouraging her to look at him. Red eyes flick to the scene behind them. Chizuru and Toudou, absorbed in each other, a tender moment between relieved young lovers, watched through eyes still scorched from tears. A motion in Sen's peripheral vision. Kazama leans forward, and she turns her face to look at him. His lips meet hers, swift and light and lingering, but withdraw again before she can feel more than shock.

…At first. Thoughts surge forth, memories of those subconscious sensations flashing through Sen's mind. Soft and experimental, bewildering and intriguing. Forgiveness and reassurance. Not an attempt to dominate her, in body or in spirit. A reminder of their half-forgotten promise, a taste of the uncertain future to come, both seeking and giving some sort of comfort.

 _That's proof that we are no longer strangers_ , murmurs Kazama, his hand still on the back of her neck, as if to draw her back in again, but he does not stir. _And now, there's no one left in my way. You're coming away with me_.

 _Where are we going_? asks Sen. A glance back at Chizuru and Toudou, still embracing, holding tight as if never to let go, all else cast aside. Kazama traces her gaze, raises his eyebrows, does not acknowledge her unspoken yearning. Sen understands his equally silent meaning, and fixes her eyes on Kimigiku again as she stirs. Love is irrelevant. They may no longer be strangers, but to entertain the hope of romance would be foolish indeed.

 _Home_ , says Kazama simply, and smiles. _To Yase_. At the mention of her hometown, Sen dares to return the gesture, but does not dare ask why. Acceptance of herself as herself, herself as demon, is enough. She needs time to recover; let Kazama make the decisions for now. Lover or loveless, after all the strife she's overcome, she finds that she no longer wants to resist.

* * *

 _Style inspired by a much shorter passage from A.S. Byatt's_ Possession _. Some dialogue inspired by masayume85's translation of a certain section of "Ore-tachi no Nakama" from HakuMyu Toudou-hen._


End file.
